A Chequered Past & Future

[Levi DAmico]

This thread is back-dated to October 10th 2016

There is something about the inevitability of death that has the power to force choices and reflections upon a man. He comes to stop and think about his life, everything about where he came from, where he was, and where he was going. He tallied the good and the bad, his expectations, his successes, and his failures. He considered the jobs that were done, the ones still in limbo, and the ones that have yet to come his way. It’s all up for review, the report being an annual occurrence, something that’s been in place since he knew what it was worth to keep track. It was all in the effort to learn and evolve because time is precious, finite, and he didn’t really want to waste a second of it being in the red. There was always a quota for him to meet, a level of achievement he had to reach if he was ever going to be satisfied with himself. The bar gets higher every year, but then again, it was supposed to. He wasn’t the type to rest on his laurels or keep working with a tried and tested method just because it hadn’t shown its age just yet. The ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ philosophy had never really washed with him. Why settle? He was not satisfied with just doing well; he sought excellence – maybe even perfection. Because maybe if he was truly infallible, he could keep winning, and maybe he could finally get his hands on that dream he’d been pursuing for a lifetime.

Being a Vampire did not necessarily remove the inevitability of death – it only made the end harder to anticipate. They would have to take him apart and burn the pieces to put him down, and even so, that didn’t guarantee he would stay down forever. He hadn’t lived for 32 years to just give up, and he was committed to waging war against God himself for another chance at life. Perhaps that was why he’d been fated to become a member of the undying – a gift, a curse, for his defiant spirit. It was his nature to be both incredibly stubborn and yet flexible enough to adapt to change. He was also incredibly arrogant and yet humble enough to accept that he was the one who had to change. After all, Levi understood that he wasn’t infallible just yet – made evident by the fact that he wasn’t yet free. That dream remained beyond his reach, and as the world inhaled obstacles and exhaled opportunities, that dream remained at an unfathomable distance. The best chance the Italian had at determining the proximity was to look back on his progress, re-evaluate his priorities, and analyse his performance.

It was while Levi was at his desk, seated in his throne like leather chair and running through his yearly self-appraisal, that the call had come in. For a moment, the Italian didn’t recognise the characteristic chirp of his mobile as it whirred across the wood of his desk. Umber eyes were lost in a sea of white walls and oak flooring, with a furrow knotted in his brow, a hand curling around his chin, his laptop on standby, an empty whisky tumbler to the right of it, and a smouldering cigarette in the glass ashtray to the left of it. He had everything he needed in place, so the call was an almighty invasion – and he hadn’t even realised who was on the other end of that line. The phone had vibrated across the desk for five seconds before Levi broke from his lifeless posture and snatched it. There was a moment where the irate Italian had considered launching the device – full force – at the opposite wall, but he withheld his anger under the weight of obligation and laziness. Did he really want to have to explain just how he had the strength to launch that phone? Never mind the repair bill for patching up that hole. No. It just wasn’t worth the grief. Levi answered the phone with his usual curtness.

“Ciao.”

“Ciao… I see you’re no less crabby this year.”

The voice speaking to Levi through the phone was familiar for more than a handful of reasons. The stony sound of it provoked memories of disappointment and rage. Levi felt his jaw clench around his words, rendering him speechless for a moment. The Vampiro wasn’t expecting that voice to howl into his ear like a strange, gravelly echo – just like last year. They had nothing to say to one another, certainly nothing ******* nice, so why was his ******** of a father calling him?

“What do you want?” Levi growled.

“From you? Nothing.”

“Great, so why are you calling?”

“It’s your birthday.”

William’s tone was, weirdly enough, not in the least bit mocking. It sounded as though the man was saying the most obvious thing in the world to someone who had somehow manged to forget his own ******* birthday. The silence screamed and pounded before Levi could manage the smallest, angriest reply.

“And?”

“And, should a father not wish his son well on his birthday?”

Levi only growled again, causing William to smirk.

“Also. You and I need to talk.”

“If it’s to do with work set a date. Otherwise, forget it.”

“It’s too important to wait, Levi.” William paused. “It’s about Gino.”

“…Has he said something?”

“Should he have?”

Levi could almost see the man arching a brow. “Just answer the ******* question.”

A sigh. “I’ve not been able to contact him for a matter of weeks, actually. And, the last time we talked, he said he had some responsibilities to attend to up your way. I know Gino.” Those words were grave. “He only goes radio silent when he’s picking up a… particularly nasty job.”

“Which has got what to do with me?”

“Relax, piccolo.”

Levi’s right eye twitched.

“I just want you to call me if you see Gino.”

“Sure,” Levi snarled. “I’ll call you if I see Gino. I’ll call you coglione, carogna, and maybe even stronzo! My favourite though, for you, is ********. But, I guess I’m just reflecting with that one. Wishful ******* thinking and all that.”

“…Are you done?”

“For now.”

“Just do as you’re ******* told for once, monello. If you see Gino, call me.”

Any retort the Vampiro might have had – insulting or otherwise – was just singing to the dial tone at that point, however, because William had promptly slammed the phone down. That mindless urge to rocket his mobile through the wall returned with a vengeance, causing his grip to tighten flagrantly. This time, the only thing to halt the Vampiro’s rage was a soft knock on his office door.

[Levi DAmico]

Whether they realised it or not, most people have an uncanny ability to revert back to their childhood whenever they are around their parents or grandparents. Some would say this was especially true where Italians were concerned. The cultural significance of the family began as an interpretation of the Roman Catholic faith in Italy, and is now an integral part of their culture. The significance that the family maintains even underpins the concept of the Mafia itself – without it there would be no structure, no iron-clad fallacies, and no organisation. As a result, it is entirely acceptable for Italian men to remain within the family until their 30s or even 40s. It’s so prolific in Italian culture that one in every three men sees his mother every day. Every single ******* day. What’s more, seven out of ten unmarried men over the age of 35 still actually live with their parents. Far from being an object of derision, these men are actually celebrated and respected – they’re taking care of their family, getting involved, and doing the right thing.

Living at home is not just a financially beneficial arrangement, but, is encouraged from the moment of that child’s birth. Every Italian child inevitably spends more time with their mother than their father; around 15 minutes a day compared to the hours and hours spent with their mother. So he learns to take his every cue from her, while she learns to be in control of his every thought or movement. She decides what he wears, whom he sees, and what he eats. That is why Italian men speak to their mothers so often even after leaving home. They are rarely able to make a decision without her input, which can be incredibly frustrating for the female partners of these modern day Peter Pans. Even before they meet, the man has a blueprint of his wife-to-be imprinted on his soul: in most cases she will have to look like his mother, be able to cook as well as her, and ultimately be a replacement mother for him. Italian men basically leave one nest to settle into another.

Suffice it to say, Levi’s life hadn’t travelled in the direction that his peers had. Forgetting the fact that his mother abandoned their family when Levi was only 13 years of age, Marietta had never been the traditional Italian mother at any rate. She resented the idea of being the stay at home wife while her husband went to work and brought home a paycheque of nefarious origins. Marietta had taken care of herself from a very young age; she’d had her own career, her own goals in life, and was looking forward to sharing these aspirations with her darling husband. Despite meeting what she thought was the man of her dreams, every ambition she had ever conceived was stripped away upon their wedding night. William had changed dramatically, set the rules which were enforced by the society the man had adopted, and it was now the woman’s role to stay at home and look after the kids. It would be no miracle for modern day doctors to understand why Marietta soon developed post natal depression.

The disease cost her any chance she would otherwise have had at bonding with her son and pulling him away from a life of crime. She abhorred her own child’s existence, knowing him to be an embodiment of her stolen dreams and freedom. Depressed, alone, and feeling imprisoned in a life she had never felt was due to her, Marietta sought out the solace of death over the several years of her marriage, yet even had that taken from her. In a desperate bid of control, she had also tried to drown their six month old infant, having failed only because her husband had come home early from work and found their household gravely silent. William had rushed into the bathroom to find the woman submersing their son in cold water; the waves crashed over the full basin even from the child’s tiny kicks and wails, flooding the household in terror. William had never regretted grabbing his wife by the throat in that moment, or squeezing until the light left her eyes and she went limp in his arms. The doctor was called immediately, and while both mother and child survived the ordeal, William had lived to regret not squeezing the woman’s throat a little harder.

The years before Marietta’s disputed disappearance were painful and loud. Levi’s induction into the private correctional facility in Venice was like a vacation from the screaming and the crying and the judgement of being everything that was wrong with the world. Even though the facility was dysfunctional in its own right and had warranted the youth no fewer black eyes and suspicious marks, he had still preferred it to being at home. It was there that Levi had shaped his philosophy, and learned what it took to be a made man. He’d gone in as a ball of fury and fire, ready to consume and destroy everything in his path, even unto his own destruction, but when he left, he’d emerged with his eyes opened to the way of the world. The fire and fury was still in his heart, but now Levi knew how to control it, how to be economical. He’d learned about the power of numbers, how he could gain a following and divide his enemies. He’d also learned the valuable lesson of patience and when to jump on an opportunity. Levi might have been just ten years old at the time, but the Italian would take those lessons, those scars, and those memories with him for the remainder of his life.

[Levi DAmico]

While the dragon’s endless fury had been paused by the sudden, soft knocking on his office door, it hadn’t necessarily subsided. Levi’s grip on his mobile phone was tense, almost crushing, and his arm was held above his head at a sharp angle, ready to redirect that rage at whoever was interrupting him. His jaw was so damn tense too that it felt wired shut, so he didn’t bother to call them in or tell them to – wisely – leave him the **** alone. Instead, Levi waited, frozen in the moment of wanting to release 32 years’ worth of hate by pointlessly launching his own possessions through another one of his possessions. It was the arrogant man’s equivalent of self-harm – not that he was capable of achieving that level of self-reflection in such a moment. All the Italian could think about was how lucky and ******* blessed he was to experience such a tirade of unadulterated ******** on this particular date every ******* year. This was why he got drunk, he reaffirmed to himself, so he wouldn’t be such a complete abomination to everyone and everything that had the misfortune of being near him on his birthday. After all, knocking on your boss’ door – during work hours – was hardly an offence worthy of being screamed at and having something thrown at your face.

Ten seconds of tense silence filled the gap between the first gentle wrapping on his door and the second, and the effect it had on Levi’s rage was curious. It had made the Italian’s frown change too, as if a complex chemical reaction had taken place in his DNA. That cold, hard glare thawed slowly, appearing vaguely hospitable again, and he let his arm drop back to the surface of his desk; his make-shift weapon released from duty. Levi took a deep, unneeded breath and then paused. He listened for the dull thudding of a heart behind the wood, for the whistle of oxygen spilling into lungs, and for those two constant sounds of life to confirm to him that not only was there a mortal outside his door, but one he might recognise. Because Levi had been too perceptive for his own good when he was counted amongst them, and now, now he knew how to distinguish one minion from another judging purely by the rhythm of their bodies. There were other markers too, things like scent and flavour that he could detect with the sensitivity of sharks, but Levi preferred to rely on his sight and hearing – it was just less gross that way.

It didn’t take the Vampiro very long to discern the identity of the man standing outside his door, but it did throw up the question as to why he was waiting patiently instead of just barging his way in as he always did. After all, Shiro had a habit of just kicking the door off its hinges and marching in without any invitation – regardless of what kind of a mood the Italian was in. Sure, Shiro knew that today of all days was reserved specifically for Levi to waste sulking and brooding about his fucked up beginnings, but that hadn’t necessarily stopped him from being a prick before. You could almost assume it was in their DNA to be violent and petty toward each other, like cats and dogs engaging in an endless, hereditary war. So, why was Shiro knocking softly on Levi’s door and waiting very patiently for an invitation this time around? Call it paranoia, but, Levi did not like this situation at all. You don’t employ a yapping, angry guard dog and think nothing when they go suspiciously placid and quiet. Something was wrong and Levi sat very still in his chair, deciding to wait and see what his second in command would actually do.

While it might have been his namesake, Shirosame didn’t actually possess the super sensitive perceptions of a Great White shark. That didn’t stop him from knowing that Levi was in his office, or at least, from having a very good idea that Levi was still in there. The whole floor had heard the man swearing down his phone just a few moments ago. Of course, Levi had informed Shiro that he had super powers now, and that he could teleport places at the blink of an eye, but, there was no reason for Levi to leave his desk, was there? Well, save for teleporting to a mountainside and screaming his lungs out, or even to a demolition site and punching the **** out of something tall, broad, and possibly made of cement. The Japanese man figured that Levi probably had a new way to deal with his rage now that he was effectively Bruce Banner. There had been reports in the news that Vampires were just like people, only more enhanced. That went for the emotional as well as the physical, didn’t it? So God only help the poor bastards that got in the way of that dragon’s rage these days… Not that that was the reason why Shiro was being so passive tonight.

“Hey, Levi,” Shiro called calmly. “I’m coming in.”

His words were a grumble, and a fairly inaudible one at that. Being so close to the door that his face was basically pressed against it, the Shark’s voice felt hot and smothering as it washed back over his own features. Still, Shiro didn’t doubt that Levi could hear him even when he didn’t respond. He also knew it was pointless to wait any longer. Besides, Levi would easily consider this some kind of game if Shiro actually asked for permission before he entered – the least the Italian would do was deny him, the worst was to make him solve a puzzle or answer some kind of ridiculous riddle. Not that it meant Shiro could win just by coming in anyway – there was always something for the Italian to grouse about. The Japanese man waited just a few seconds longer before twisting the door handle and carefully stepping into the room. Honestly, Shiro didn’t know what to expect – a trip wire shotgun blast, a lethal shadowy apparition to come clawing at his face, or maybe even for all the lights in the building to spontaneously go out and for the foundations to shake – but he seemed dressed and equipped for any eventuality.

More often than not, the Japanese man dressed in dark, professional outfits – though not necessarily suits. Shiro’s wardrobe was more flexible than the Italian’s, who almost exclusively wore pants, shirts, and blazers and only in shades of black and white. On this occasion, the Japanese man had apparently decided that baring any kind of skin beyond his face and hands was somehow inappropriate, so had donned a black turtleneck, a pair of slim-legged charcoal trousers, and beige tumbled leather ankle boots. A heavy jet Chesterfield overcoat swamped his trim frame too, exaggerating that harmless visage the young man often had; not merely because of how slight it made him look, but because it concealed his weapons too. Shiro, like his Italian counterpart, never went anywhere unarmed despite a small militia of body guards and minions at his disposal. Where Levi preferred to carry an undisclosed number of guns on his person, Shiro preferred a number of sharp swords and knives which were attached to various points on his body.
As Shiro crept into the dark space of Levi’s office, he instinctively prepared to reach for the tantō secured to his hip. The 10 inch blade was single-edged, made of hardened Japanese steel, and was designed for slashing as much as it was designed for stabbing. The tantō is one of many traditionally made Japanese swords that were worn by the samurai class of feudal Japan. They were used in traditional martial arts (tantojutsu), but were also perfect for quick assassinations. These short blades could effortlessly reach between plates of armour and under a ribcage to reach the heart. Shiro didn’t suspect that his blade would do too much damage to a supernatural entity, but he was simply not the type to shy away from even a dangerous situation. It felt foolish to close the door behind him as he entered, but judging by the inky shadows that choked the Italian’s office space, it was probably best to close it off to the rest of the floor. Levi had mentioned that, when he wasn’t happy, the room tended to go funny, and this heavy, smoky presence in the air certainly qualified as weird.

“Levi?”

As Shiro called into the oppressive darkness, he noticed that his voice and even his footsteps did not echo.

[Levi DAmico]

Blood is thicker than water. That was what they said. The insinuation being that your blood relatives are supposed to be superior in your heart than any other relationship you’ve made in a lifetime. However, the proverb is muddled, only half complete, and the actual sentiment is the very reverse of that common proverb. Why would these friends ever be referred to as water anyway? The genuine proverb, "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb", actually portrayed a loyalty to those whom a person shed blood with – such as the blood shed by soldiers on the battlefield. Their camaraderie is born from sacrifice and empathy, a bond stronger than those of the family you happened to be born into, from the water of the womb that washed you into the world. The proverb also originally referenced those blood covenants that people used to make in by-gone eras, which involved mutual wounding and mixing of the blood. Similar bonds tied Vampiri together, threading relationships of sire and childe. Traditionally, these relationships served as mentor and student, and more commonly these days: parent and child. The idea had always made Levi a little queasy, not merely because he already had a set of parents, and that those relationships were shitty enough on their own.

As far as the Italian was concerned, his Vampire “family” were more ghost than blood or even water. Levi held no obligation to the ones that bore him into both worlds, incidentally. It was his opinion that respect was ultimately earned rather than gifted simply because one ***** had pushed him out from between her legs and the other ***** had pushed her fangs into him. That obstinance of his probably hadn’t won him any favours in either family unit, likely because they had expected him to be grateful, maybe even a little bit courteous to their presumed superiority. It had been bad enough when Levi had been born to William and Marietta D’Amico. He held them in no form of respect, and as a matter of fact, he had learned how to hate from just being with them. His father was a neglectful ********, a man more concerned with chasing power and money than nurturing his own ******* lineage. William was the ******** who had left Levi to fend for himself, not merely against the cruelties of the world, but from his own psychotic mother. Marietta indiscriminately exchanged her own brand of neglect for insufferable dogmatism. If she couldn’t control Levi’s every thought and action, she would shame him, disown him, and make him seek out death himself.

The Italian’s fucked up family unit had not provided the best environment for the development of good psychological health. Levi had quickly come to understand that relying on others was not normally worth the investment. He had also learned to close himself off behind a fortress of barbs and dragon hide, to protect himself from being vulnerable to anyone or anything. It was the best he could do to give himself a scrap of freedom, and was pretty typical given his upbringing. More than 50 years ago, psychologist Carl Rogers suggested that simply loving children wasn’t enough. Parents had to love their children unconditionally – for who they are, not for what they do. Yet, in effect, parents these days are given tips in conditional parenting, which comes in two flavours: turn up the affection when they are good, and withhold affection when they are not. Thus, the talk show host Phil McGraw suggested that what children need or enjoy should be offered contingently, turned into rewards to be doled out or withheld so they “behave according to your wishes”. And “one of the most powerful currencies for a child,” he adds, “is the parents’ acceptance and approval”. In laymen’s terms, it was the carrot and stick approach to parenting.

Conditional parenting isn’t limited to old-school authoritarians, however. Some people who wouldn’t dream of spanking their little darlings choose instead to discipline their young children by forcibly isolating them, a tactic called “time out”. Conversely, positive reinforcement teaches children that they are loved, and lovable, only when they do whatever is considered good behaviour according to their parents. This raises the intriguing possibility that the problem with praise isn’t that it is done the wrong way – or handed out too easily, as social conservatives insist – rather, it might be just another method of control, comparable to punishment. The primary message of all types of conditional parenting is that children must earn a parent’s love. A steady diet of that, Rogers warned, and children might eventually need a therapist to provide the unconditional acceptance they didn’t get when it counted.

Studies later supported Rogers’ theory, demonstrating that children raised by conditional parenting tended to first, resent and dislike their parents. Second, say that the way they acted was often due more to a “strong internal pressure” than to “a real sense of choice”. And thirdly, show that their happiness after succeeding at something was usually short-lived. The children also stated that they were loved only when they lived up to their parents’ expectations, and now felt less worthy as adults. The studies found that both positive and negative conditional parenting were harmful, but in slightly different ways. The positive kind sometimes succeeded in getting children to work harder on academic tasks, but at the cost of unhealthy feelings of “internal compulsion”. Negative conditional parenting didn’t even work in the short run; it just increased the child’s negative feelings about their parents. It turned out that children who received conditional approval were somewhat more likely to act as the parent wanted, but that the compliance came at a steep price.

[Levi DAmico]

As Shiro continued to creep – one footstep at a time – into the Italian’s office, he considered the comparable creepiness of the fact that it was both inexplicably dark and impossibly silent. The two inch metal heels at the bottom of his ankle boots should have made more sound than they did against the white oak flooring. He could just about see his hand in front of his own face too, where a fog of shadows concealed everything else from his eyes. It was different from just standing in a room that had had the lights turned off; the shadows were thick and suffocating, a force all its own rather than an absence of any light. Fortunately, Shiro knew the layout of the office space well enough to navigate through to Levi’s desk without any mishaps – aided by the fact that Levi’s sense of style was minimalist. There was feet of space between the few pieces of furniture that were allowed in Levi’s office; the sofa, the desk and accompanying throne, the bookshelves, the liquor cabinet, and the filing cabinets all seemed like tiny islands in a sea of hardwood flooring. Shiro knew of, but didn’t necessarily understand, Levi’s taste for modern furniture and wide open spaces. It was Zen-like, which was a surprise considering how Levi’s go-to emotion was generally rage, but maybe it was just that he needed some sense of serenity after spending his entire life stressing out.

The Italian liked simple colours and textures, and wanted as little junk in the room as possible – everything had a place, and nothing unnecessary or impractical was ever tolerated. Shiro had a sneaking suspicion that the Newton’s Cradle, which had sat on the Italian’s desk for over a year now, must have been considered clutter. So, knowing that it was allowed to stay made the Japanese man swell with pride. It was almost as though it signified that Shiro was allowed to stay too, and he couldn’t deny how good it felt to be acknowledged and accepted by the intolerant, aggressive Italian – especially considering recent events. Of course, Shiro was not overly pleased to discover that Levi had been keeping such an incredible secret from him for over two years. He tried to understand it, tried to attribute it to the fact that Levi was paranoid, overly careful, and dished out trust less willingly than Hell would give up a soul. But it wasn’t easy to accept the reality of the situation, that despite Shiro’s unflinching loyalty toward Levi, that the Italian might never fully trust him. Maybe he should have been satisfied that he had any of the man’s trust at all, but that was a tough pill to swallow after six years of friendship.

In the wake of a dozen small and cautious footsteps, Shiro sensed that he was approximately half-way toward Levi’s desk, but felt like he had stepped into a separate plane of existence. It was difficult to keep his bearings when his eyes failed to adjust to the dark and any sounds he made just seemed to get swallowed up. The walls of the office could have been a mile away or two inches in front of his nose, and he probably wouldn’t have been aware of the difference until he’d bumped into it. Shiro’s grip remained steady on his blade handle, not allowing his nerves to inhibit his reach should he need to strike. For a mortal, Shiro’s senses and reflexes were spectacular. He’d never caught a fly in the air with a pair of chopsticks, cut bullets down with his katana, or leapt a building in a single bound as suggested in many a Kung Fu movie. Shiro did know how to break a man’s arm in two movements, however, and dodge many projectiles. Weirdly enough, when Shiro hadn’t managed to dodge, he seemed to bounce back quickly enough. Perhaps it was some strange sense of Chi that Levi couldn’t fully grasp. He could grasp the shark’s throat just fine, however.

The reaction was explosive. The minute the Vampiro’s hand closed around that delicate neck, a blade was pressed to his abdomen. The hardness of that steel pressing near his crotch didn’t encourage Levi to relent, however. It would have been easy – pleasant even – to squeeze his hand closed further and put pressure on Shiro’s throat, maybe close his airways and stop him from gasping out an insult or a threat, but Levi wasn’t trying to actually hurt the Japanese man. That much was made evident when the shadows suddenly lifted, when that oppressive black fog swept out of the room like it had been sucked out through a straw. A warm, soft light replaced the darkness, rebuilding the world around them and securing a sense of normality again. Shiro didn’t bother to address the room, his obsidian eyes were secured to Levi’s like they were tethered by an invisible chain. The look on Levi’s face was indecipherable, even if his actions seemed to suggest that Shiro wasn’t in any immediate danger. His face was cruel and beautiful, features harsh and animalistic amidst the nest of dark hair. Umber eyes burned coldly with rage, because his hate was physically apparent even if it was not currently being directed at Shiro.

“Let go,” Shiro growled.

Much to his surprise, Levi did let go. If only for a second and if only so he could grab the back of the man’s head instead. As his fingers dug in and clutched at the jet black fibres of Shiro’s hair, it was now impossible for him to pretend like he hadn’t noticed the length difference in all these months. Until March, Shiro’s hair was like a waterfall of darkness. Almost sixty inches in length, it had either smothered Shiro’s appearance or it had been tied out of the way in a neat bun, pony tail or braid. Levi was aware that the Japanese man had been growing his hair for his entire life, which meant thirty years of shampooing, conditioning, and combing that mass. He cared for his mane like someone might care for a prized possession, maybe even their own kid. So when Shiro had appeared one day with his hair barely scraping past his neckline, it was impossible to miss. Levi had wondered about it though, wondered what had made the man sever something that was so important to him, but he’d never asked. Shiro didn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to explain either, and Levi wasn’t the type to beg for an answer out of anyone. So he’d stubbornly pushed the burning question aside for all these months and probably would have kept it broiling in a pocket of his skull had he not come across this opportunity. Bringing up the question now would certainly piss Shiro off.

“Why’d you cut your ******* hair anyway?”

[Levi DAmico]

What makes a friend? Was it the conversations shared, the experiences lived, was it surviving through the good and bad? Was it the loyalty they showed when you tugged them into an unnecessary brawl? A brawl they never wanted to be a part of, one they might not even survive, but fought in anyway because it was you. Because you’d asked. Because you’d given them the impression that it mattered to you if they did and it would end everything if they didn’t. But it never really mattered. It was all just a game, a test, a challenge to overcome and prove that you were worthy, to prove that they were worthy too. But maybe they understood that at any rate. Because they knew you. Was it therefore that understanding, that empathic connection which made a friend? The fact that they saw all the ugly in you, but loved you anyway, accepted you for the monster that you are. Was it the fact that you could abuse them in all the sick, fucked up little ways you could think of, and they’d forgive you? Because it was you. Because it was them. Maybe it was that feeling instead, that sense of mutual recognition, that feeling like you knew this person through and through even if your eyes had only just met. It was symbiotic in a way, friendship; you needed each other to survive. So in the end, maybe it was all of the above that made a friend.

The Japanese have a term, kenzoku, which when translated literally means “family”, yet the phrase houses so much more than that. Kenzoku suggests a bond between people who share the same ideals, who make that same commitment, and who therefore share a destiny. It implies that two people share the deepest connection of friendship, one that transverses time, space, and generations. It’s an echo of lives lived as comrades from the distant past that ripples through to the present and the future. Many people have that person in their lives with whom they feel that instant, enigmatic bond; where time and distances do nothing to diminish its strength. But it’s more than that too. It’s the bond that keeps the pair in communication, keeps them understanding the other, that keeps their relationship afloat even through the darkest storms because they’re both after the same thing. Kenzoku entails a mystical kind of attraction, like an invisible thread that ties two souls, two hearts, and two minds together. It’s a tenacious, profound, and lingering emotion which no words can really encompass. Although both men were probably too proud to admit it openly, and might even struggle to admit it to themselves, Levi and Shiro had found this kenzoku bond with one another.

Obsidian and umber eyes had first met across a crowded room, but it wasn’t romantic or even platonic in the slightest. The Italian had heard a number of rumours about the long-haired Japanese man, reports about his shark-like nature, his innovative thinking, his steely determination, and his nigh-on perfect success rate when it came to missions. At the time, Shirosame had been in much the same career path as he is now, acting as a go-between for various criminal organisations – proof that these boys could play nice so long as they had a mediator. To be good at what he did, Shiro needed a number of skills, talents, and knowledge, which included but was not limited to an appreciation of cultural differences, an array of foreign languages, an understanding of computer systems and the abilities to manipulate them, knowledge of the organisational hierarchies as well as their business models, and as a matter of self-preservation: formidable combat prowess. So when Levi had heard that such a talented individual existed in their world, he had to find a way to meet him, test his worth, and bring the Shark on board if he passed. It wouldn’t do for these two ships to pass in the night, Levi had figured, so he had devised a plan to be remembered, make an impression, and ensure the Japanese man would want to investigate him. Sometimes that involved making enemies before you could make friends, because in their world, you tend to invest more effort into your rivals than you do your allies…

Of course, Shirosame Hiroumi – heir of the Yamaguchi-gumi of Kobe, Japan – wasn’t the only one with a reputation. By the age of 20, Levi had begun to be known widely as the Leviathan, and not merely because of the similar pronunciation. Much like the Tanakh’s famed serpent, Levi was often seen as a ferocious savage, a creature who thought himself to be without fear or equal, a man that was unquenchable by power, and obedient to none. Sure, he claimed loyalty to the Patriarca and even to Carlos Nicoletti at the time, but it was all a farce. Anyone who knew anything about the upstart D’Amico knew that he was only loyal to himself, wasn’t afraid of dying in a fight, and gladly took up arms at the slightest provocation. His careless, wanton, and ferocious nature easily defined him as something of a dragon – particularly when it became apparent that the one thing Levi loved more than punching someone in the face was power. Power in their world came in green, and the best way to make it as a Mafioso was to rise in the ranks and build your own following. Being a thug was easy – too easy – and so Levi put his mind to work on retaking his once stripped title as caporegime. It took a lot of hard graft, sacrifices, and doing deals on the side-lines and under tables, but by the time Levi was 23, he had reclaimed his title, and his dragon-like reputation was cemented.

Just two years later and the Leviathan had crossed paths with that of the White Shark. When two predators meet in the wild, it often results in a standoff. With no option of retreat – they were each too stubborn and pride-filled to give ground – it was inevitable what would happen. But when Levi threw that empty tumbler at the younger man’s head from across the room, he hadn’t expected to miss, or for the man to charge up to him and punch him in the face. For a split second there, Levi felt the world up-end itself and he laughed, even as he was wiping the blood from his split lip and busted nose. He had laughed like a crazy man because this was the spark he had wanted, the evidence that he had definitely chosen well in Shiro. It didn’t matter in that moment whether they were two beasts in the wild or two men in a bar, the world shuddered at the thought of what these two could achieve together.

[Levi DAmico]

“Why are you asking me that now?” demanded the Shark, the look in his eyes heavy with the words Levi would kill him for saying.

Levi didn’t exactly have an answer for Shiro, though – but for the tightening of his fist in short hair at any rate. He twisted the shorter man’s head back, felt the blade push closer to his own skin so much so that he could feel the cold of it, but kept his focus on those furious obsidian orbs. It was like child’s play to watch the emotions flitter across Shiro’s face so expectedly. Aside from the pain that he was most certainly feeling, the sour pressure tugging at the nerves in his skull, mostly Shiro looked pained because his friend was being so unduly cruel to him. And it wasn’t like Shiro didn’t know what was taking place, that Levi was studying him with cold fascination, like kids dissecting frogs. It was the only reason why that blade hadn’t pushed any deeper.

“Answer the question,” demanded the Dragon, the look in his eyes indecipherable beyond the slow-burning rage.

Shiro had to bite down on a yelp of pain that dared to creep forth when Levi ended his words with another tug; his version of negative conditioning. It might not have made a whole lot of sense to cause an association with pain with the question if Levi was looking for an answer, but, since Shiro knew that Levi could do worse than tug his hair, the technique was actually pretty effective.

“You know the answer,” Shiro seethed. “So the question is rather pointless. Now let go of my ******* hair before I gut you.”

With a sneer, Levi let go and stepped back. It was a reward for a good deed because Shiro had given him what he’d wanted; a fight. It was tame as far as their battles went, however, and to the untrained eye, it might have appeared like it was the Italian who was throwing in the towel at the threat of being gutted. But he wasn’t scared of Shiro, even when he knew how serious the man was about slipping a blade under his flesh – and not even because he was practically immortal either. It wouldn’t have been the first time the Shark had brought a knife to his skin, but, perhaps the first time since Levi had been a Vampire. After all, the Italian had been building a wall between himself and the Shark following the event. It was self-preservation at its finest – he hadn’t wanted Shiro to know the truth at the risk of losing him. Yet, now that all his cards were bared on the table, he noticed that it was the Japanese man who was holding back, and the crushing weight of Levi’s expectations was getting the better of his temper again.

After a moment of consideration, the Vampiro retreated to his desk, slow and malevolent like a creeping shadow over the moon. He sat down on his throne-like chair, elbows on the table and his fingers laced together like yet another wall between them. Umber eyes kept their look of spite and doubt as he glared at the other man in the room, especially since Shiro was attempting to focus on everything else that wasn’t Levi while he sheathed his blade. First the Shark inspected the ceiling, the light fixtures, and then he inspected the various pieces of furniture around the room as if to assess they were all exactly where he remembered them to be. Slowly and cautiously, his attention moved to the Newton’s Cradle on Levi’s desk – the one he’d gifted the Italian on Valentine’s Day 2015 for some unfathomable reason. Those obsidian eyes remained on the steel structure as he strode closer, his expression and mannerisms just as cold and rigid as his point of interest. Once he was a step away from Levi’s desk, Shiro ran his index finger along the length of the cradle’s top bar and sighed sullenly to himself.

“Why have you kept this thing?” he asked, not once lifting his gaze. “I thought you hated clutter. Well. You know, save for cigarette butts and empty bottles.”

“That’s because they’re practical.”

The weird comment seemed to snatch the Shark right from out of the oceans of his thoughts. “For what?” he growled, brows making a perfect V in the centre of his sharp eyes.

“For annoying you.”

The smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across the Italian’s face made Shiro’s glare sharper than his blade.

“Plus, the cleaner seems to keep taking it out of the trash whenever I try to discard it. I gave up in the end so now it sits there as a testament to my laziness.”

That wasn’t remotely true, but, when the frown lines deepened expectedly in Shiro’s brow and his dark eyes flickered brightly with rage, Levi felt like that white lie was worth it. Besides, it wasn’t like he would confess the truth. There was a lot of unspoken agreements between the pair, knowledge shared and understood without them even having to acknowledge it. These instances, where Levi questioned Shiro’s choice to sever his hair and where Shiro questioned Levi’s choice to keep the gift, were oddities in their relationship. These moments were always awkward and unsettling, and since they both knew that, they could use them as weapons. When Levi felt angry, he attacked the Shark with whatever he felt could cut him the deepest. The hair question was right up there because he did know the answer. He knew that Shiro had grown his impressively long – but girly-looking – mane as a symbol of his loyalty to his family and their Samurai heritage. So there were only two options to consider as to why he would sever 30 years’ worth of dedication; either Shiro didn’t have a choice in the matter – someone cut it off for him or he was pushed out of his father’s will – or Shiro had decided to quit the Yamaguchi and sever his family ties. Regardless of the spark that lit the fire, the blazes were burning and there was no doubt in Levi’s mind that Shiro was focused on what would become of his life now.

The funny thing about this whole mess was that the severance of those family ties and the placement of that Newton’s Cradle were inexplicably connected. The truth was that the only reason that metal structure remained on Levi’s desk was because Shiro had put it there. It wasn’t a testament to Levi’s laziness, to his lack of follow-through for shoving it up the cleaner’s *** when she should have thrown it out with the trash. If anything, the device that demonstrated conservation of momentum and energy was also a symbol of their friendship. When one sphere on the end of the Newton’s Cradle was lifted and released, it strikes the stationary spheres in the middle transmitting a force through them and pushing the last one upward. In return, the last sphere reverts the force that was transmitted to it through the stationary spheres and into the first sphere; beginning the cycle all over again. It was plain to see that Levi represented one end sphere and Shiro the other because when one reacted, that action echoed through the world to affect the other. He couldn’t throw something like that away, not even for all the whisky in the world.